


crush crush crush

by youchuu



Category: THE iDOLM@STER
Genre: Alternate Universe - High School, F/F, F/M, Love Triangles, Slow Burn, some dark content later on, tread carefully!
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-24
Updated: 2020-10-18
Packaged: 2021-03-04 18:27:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,010
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25480897
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/youchuu/pseuds/youchuu
Summary: secrets bind us and secrets tear us apart
Relationships: Akizuki Ritsuko/Hoshii Miki, Akizuki Ritsuko/Kisaragi Chihaya, Amagase Touma/Kikuchi Makoto
Comments: 3
Kudos: 5





	1. Chapter 1 (Ritsuko)

New year, new me. That's what I've been trying to tell myself the past three, but every time, I fall back into the same old habits. Academics aren't the problem, because if I wasn't working my ass off and getting straight As, who would I even be? No, that's not my problem, much as I'd like it to be that simple.

" _So like, you think she got a boyfriend yet?"_

_"Are you kidding? I'm pretty sure she's legally changing her name to Mrs. AP Statistics."_

I watch the bus in its dingy yellow glory roll up to the curb, crushing fallen leaves in its wake. This year will be different, I swear to god. It's my last one here and I'm going to make it count, somehow. The door folds itself open, and I position myself in a makeshift line behind several other people. My bag hangs heavy on one shoulder, strap tucked underneath my brown hair, braided on both sides. Neat and precise, as always, along with my comfortable sweater and long skirt. Adjusting my glasses with the tap of a finger, I'm the quintessential nerd. Maybe that's why no one will go out with me?

No, that's never been the problem. It's always been my choice, hasn't it?

I board the bus and, walking forward, find my usual seat some rows down. The window spot is open, and I gratefully take it and sit. Mine is one of the earlier stops, so it isn't yet crowded with throngs of rowdy teenagers. Key word: yet. The bus clamors to motion, sounding like it'd really rather just stay here please, but of course it makes its way down the street at the command of the driver, and I settle down for the ride. My eyes wander out the window, idly watching the houses drift by, or the occasional person preparing for a day of work (or maybe just errands). It's just a passing thought, but not long from now I'll be on the other side of the glass every morning. I'll be down there, watching it pass by, knowing that I have my own life to attend to.

It shudders to a stop again on a crowded street corner. This is where it begins to get noisy, and I sigh. Hopefully there will be enough seats that I don't have to share again, is all I think to myself.

"Hey, mind if I sit here?" calls a deep voice, catching my ear. I look to my left. It's... Makoto Kikuchi? I don't know him very well, but I do know he plays for the football team, causing all the girls who aren't me to gather around him and swoon. Always struck me as kind of stupid, but looking at his features now, I can vaguely understand it. He has kind of a feminine charm.

"Sure, go ahead," I say, giving up. It's not as if I can say no, anyway, and he probably is well aware. So much for that. With a grin, he takes the spot next to me, and shuffles position to set his large bag at his feet. It strikes me then that he's... smaller than I was expecting? Usually when you think of football players, they're _big_ , right? But he can't be much taller than me, though I'm sure his build is nothing to scoff at.

"Makoto," he says, jabbing a thumb at himself, as if I'd ever had any doubt as to who he was. "You're Ritsuko, right?" He's got a dorky smile that would kill any other girl, but mostly I'm just wondering how he knows my name. Probably seeing the confusion written all over my face, he clarifies, "Oh, uh, my ex used to talk about you. A lot. Said that you shared a PE class?"

I wrack my brain for any memory of this. Not that I can really go off of information that limited, but the fact that someone was talking about me to such an extent? That's not exactly common, unless... "Your ex, was she blonde? Long hair, always sleeping on the bleachers?"

He laughed, and I knew I'd hit the nail on the head. "Yeah, that sounds like Miki. She was always saying that this girl, y'see," he pauses to make a strange motion with his fingers curving up from the base of his head. Braids? "That she was always yelling at her and waking her up."

Just the memory begins to give me a headache. "Well of course! I mean, I'd get it if it were once or twice, but she didn't even try. She can't just expect to snooze her way through school." Makoto looks amused at my indignance, and I wonder, embarrassed, if I said too much.

"I told her pretty much the same thing. Especially since she's a cheerleader, y'know, gotta keep your grades up then. But you know Miki." I do indeed. She's easily top of the list for "Most Frustrating People on Earth". Forget #1, she's higher than that. Finishing that class was the biggest relief of my life. Never thought I'd be discussing it with the school quarterback, though. But, apparently bored of this topic, he takes the conversation in another direction: "There's a game tomorrow night. You should come."

Oh hell. How do I even answer? I don't really want to go, when I could use that time for studying or reading or something equally as enriching. Also, I honestly don't care that much. Sports are fine for exercise and I don't mind running around a bit, but watching them has never been an interest of mine. But I don't want to be unnecessarily rude; he seems like a pretty genuine person. In the end, I opt for ambivalence. "Maybe."

Except he _completely_ misreads me. His smile is stupidly wide as he throws out a, "Nice! I'll see you there!" Shit, did I accidentally commit myself to something? I can't exactly back out now. He looks so excited... Wait, since when did I care so much? Or rather, why would it even matter? I can just not go. It's not like he'll notice, the crowd will be packed anyway. And there's his _ex_ to fawn on him if he gets lonely.

My headache is getting worse.

\--

The rest of the day begins without a hitch. It's, for the most part, pretty unremarkable. At this point and even with new classes, everything is familiar and easy to gauge. I'm a senior, after all; it'd be _more_ worrying if I weren't like that. This isn't to say that I'm going to coast, grade-wise. The day I stop putting effort and pride into my work is the day hell freezes over, even if it's just some throwaway essay. It's almost a curse, I sometimes think, because I see everyone else around me getting the average but making up for it with all the time spent with friends and partners. In those moments, I always wonder: do they feel more fulfilled?

It's in my AP English class that things get slightly unconventional. The teacher, a young woman who can't be much older than us, passes out sheets to every row of desks. Ms. Miura has long, dark hair and gentle eyes, and her snug clothing doesn't do much to hide her curvy figure. It's very obvious how all the guys in the room are paying rapt attention—not to her lesson, but to her breasts. I find myself averting my eyes, feeling intensely and inexplicably awkward. When she reaches my desk and her subtle perfume wafts through my nose, my heart does somersaults, and I have to collect myself.

"I'd like you to turn to the person next to you and talk about the questions on the paper. Try to get to know each other a little better!" she says cheerfully. Oh god. One of these.

For all my concerns I do turn, reluctantly, glancing at the girl to my right. She's shifting around pages in her binder, with a serious, focused expression. Those papers can't be _that_ interesting, so I'm left with the conclusion that her mind is somewhere else entirely, and she probably didn't even hear the teacher. She has long fingers, I think idly to myself, as they tuck a lock of dark hair behind her ear.

Deciding that watching is probably worse than just calling out to her, I speak up. "Hey, I'm not exactly into this either," I start, voice blending seamlessly into the buzz of chatter in the room, "but maybe we should go over these questions?" She finally looks back, with sharp brown eyes that bore into me, and a tiredness that consumes her features.

"I guess you're right," she says. Her words are a sigh, and she leafs through for the questions again. For some reason, I'm taken with her voice. "I would feel bad for her otherwise."

"She seems like the honest type, right? Wouldn't want her to cry or something. These kids can be awful." What with, you know, how the boys have been hooting over her figure this entire time. Page in hand, I scan over the questions. They're just general conversation starters. In other words, nothing too difficult. And it seems like I got someone sane too, so thank god for that. "I'm Ritsuko." I smile in what I hope is a casual, friendly way. May as well introduce myself.

"Chihaya." Totally cool. And by cool I mean _very obviously would rather be anywhere but here_.

...Well. I adjust my glasses awkwardly. Questions time, I guess. Just gotta get it over with, because she seems to want this even less than I do. "What about this one: what are your hobbies?"

She stares at me, as if I've asked the most obvious question in the world. "I sing," is all she says, flatly. You would expect there to be a little more passion or excitement there, but none of that is audible in her tone.

"Is...that it?" I ask, kind of surprised. If she seemed genuinely enthused about it then that'd be one thing, but it's as if I'm holding a gun to her head or something.

"Yeah. That's it."

"Okay." I wrack my brain for my own answer. Maybe I can salvage this somehow. "Um. I like reading, and I'm good with computers. I volunteer sometimes." It's no grand revelation to me that these exercises are really unnecessary and stupid, especially for people like her, I can only assume. I may not be the most popular person around, but I can manage myself socially for what it's worth, so this is more of a nuisance than anything. But for Chihaya, it's hard to say only having just met her, and particularly since she's the closed off, reserved type. I can't quite read her yet.

I wonder what's going through her head? Not that I have any business knowing.

"Then," I continue, after a beat of silence, "do you have any family traditions?" I could say a number of things in response to this one. My family isn't perfect, no one is. But, I have enough confidence in my relationship with my parents to be able to pull up more than a few positive memories. Like how we'd go to the beach every summer when I was younger and I'd stuff my face with funnel cake, or how we'd watch the evening fireworks from the window of a local ice cream parlor.

Chihaya doesn't say a word. Her lips are pressed tight, and her gaze is averted off somewhere below. Somehow, I feel the atmosphere grow cold, as if I'd said something I _really_ shouldn't have. It's then that I really notice her eyes, darkened with lack of sleep, and...something that I hope and pray is just my imagination. My eyes catch on a tint of purple beneath the collar of her shirt. I gulp.

"You don't have to answer. It's okay."

Another pause, and she nods cautiously. "Thank you," she says. For what, I can only guess. Maybe it's because I have no intention of prying, at least not right now. But for all I think that, and convince myself that it'd be inappropriate, something doesn't feel right. It's a vague feeling in my gut, a strange anxiety as if she might not show up tomorrow. I have no logical reason for this, and I'm probably just jumping to conclusions. _But_.

Before I know it, time is up, and Ms. Miura quiets the class to the best of her ability and begins to talk about...something or other. It isn't academic, and my brain is sort of full right now, so I've lost interest. My eyes dart to the right again, as inconspicuously as possible, andon the edge of my vision I see Chihaya writing something or other on a sheet of paper. Her pencil thuds and scratches dully, barely audible unless you're listening for it. I wish then, very irrationally, that I had a reason to talk to her. If we were friends, I wonder if I could help her? I wonder if I'd be able to see her smile, even a little bit. I wonder if I'd be able to hear her sing.

The bell rings, and the spell is broken. I have to move on to lunch, and I busy myself with collecting all my things. For some reason though, she lingers in the classroom. One hand on the doorframe, I look back, tentatively.

And, swallowing all the things I'd like to say, I leave her behind.

\--

Lunch is chicken sandwiches. It's safe, but the meal itself has never been the problem. There are options for that, and if I really can't eat it, there's always the vending machine. No, the real challenge of lunch is something else. Tray held in both hands, I scan the room for an open seat. Even though they split it into time slots, the room is still incredibly full. And kind of intimidating, if I'm going to be honest.

Just as I'm going to find a quiet corner to pull out a book, I feel a hand grasp my shoulder. "Ritsuko! We share a lunch!" Oh no. _Oh no_. I turn my head, even though I already know who I'm going to see. That's a voice I haven't heard in some time, alright.

A furious, untamed flurry of blonde hair surrounds her, and her green eyes sparkle neath lashes lined with mascara. Her glossy lips form a smile that's objectively charming but makes my headache return twofold, like the pressure from an upcoming storm. "Miki..."

"Aha, you remember me. I'm glad! You should sit with us." She tugs on my arm a little. I've never understood why she comes off like that. I mean, she's only ever dated guys, to my knowledge. I can only assume she's like this with everyone, because why the hell would the school's most notorious flirt and cheerleader, with a mile long record of breakups, want anything to do with me?

"I don't know-..." I start to protest, but she's prepared.

"It's not like you have anywhere else to sit, right? C'mon." Ouch. How does she know that? Like, she's not _wrong_ per se, but that's not something that people just... Yet, I'm nonetheless defeated, and have no choice but to join her and her friends. I would be grateful, and I kind of am still! Really, I won't look a gift horse in the mouth. I just wish it wasn't her specifically. Something about her frustrates me immensely, and I could probably list off everything if I had the time, but there's also a deeper aspect. Something inherent to her that I can't name.

"Oh, Ritsuko! Cool seeing you again," says the school quarterback, and I realize that my world is a lot smaller than I thought.


	2. Chapter 2 (Makoto)

"Makoto! Catch!" I whip my head around just in time to glimpse a football hurtling toward me. My body moves on its own in reflex, and the next thing I know, the ball is light in my palm. Ren grins at me from the other side. "Nice."

"Hey, you could give me a little more warning," I chuckle.

He steps forward to lean casually on the fence, and heaves a fake sigh. "Shortie's gonna miss you. I _told_ him you're only missing the one practice, but you know how he is." He smirks. Ren's a good guy, even if I can't see through his words most of the time. They all are, the guys from the team I mean. I like them.

I feel bad for deceiving them.

Throwing all my worries under the rug, I stretch my arms to the sky and grin. It's so open and blue. "Good to know I'm wanted, hehe. I'll be back tomorrow."

"I'm holding you to that." He steps back from the fence, and I move to return the football with a nice clean throw. He receives it just as effortlessly. We're the top high school team in the county, so of course we'd be good. I just take it as it comes, though. As much as _he_ wants it to be, that's never been my dream.

\--

Earbuds in, I hop off the bus and worn out sneakers meet gravel. I still have a couple blocks to walk home, so I kind of bounce to the rhythm. _I'm miss sugar pink, liquor liquor lips. Hit me with your sweet love, steal me with a kiss_. I feel my feet start to hop-skip, and it feels so good to dance, but I glance around to make sure no one is watching. We moved for a reason. They can't know. 

It's not like I don't want them to. I _wish_ I could just throw off the stupid costume, but he won't let me. And until I can move out on my own and live my own life, I'm forced to play by the rules of his game. And that game is football.

When I reach the front door, a weight falls on my shoulders, and I reluctantly pull the music out of my ears and shut it off. He can't know what I listen to. He'd never allow it. I stuff it all in my bag and pull out my key. It glints in the light, and I start to feel doubt.

No, I love my family. I do! I really really do. I can't complain too much, because I know they love me too and want the best for me. Even if that "best" isn't quite right. And so I unlock the door as I always do. It clicks and swings open with a soft creak. The living room is dim and smells of clean carpet, and I drop my bag on the chair.

My father must have heard the door close, because he walks in unannounced. "Hey Dad," I say, hoping he'll spare me tonight. But his brow darkens.

"Makoto, what did I tell you about failing tests?" Oh, he's **angry**. I swallow nervously, but he doesn't give me time to answer. "It's _French_ , it's a bullshit language. How hard can it be? You know that you're here to play football, so why are you fucking around?"

The pressure in my head starts to rise. "I'm not _here_ to play some stupid game. That's not even what I want!"

He snarls. "No son of mine is going to be some prissy actor. Man up."

And that's all it takes for me to reach boiling point. "Fuck you," I snap, "I'm not your son." I never have been. He knows that and I know that; it's the worst kept secret in the world. And yet he still tries to convince everyone that I'm a boy. Because that's what he wanted in the first place.

I watch him raise his hand in slow motion, and wonder to myself briefly if I made a mistake. And then he goes in for it.

 _Slap_.

The sound reverberates through the room. My mother in the kitchen doesn't even flinch. All the while, fresh pain blossoms and crinkles on my cheek, but I look back at him defiantly. "If you were a girl," he spits, "you'd be cowering in fear right now. But you're not, are you?"

My lip trembles. I want to cry. I _can't_ cry. So I will every tear into anger instead. I don't have a retort or a comeback, and if I hit back that'll just prove his point. So I glare as fiercely as I can muster. He turns, and for a moment I think he might give up, but instead he bends to unzip my backpack. Panic alarms ring in my head, and I practically jump on him to grab his hand and stop him. It's a struggle, and he elbows me painfully in the rib. "What are you hiding?" he says, mockingly. "I'm your father, I get to know everything."

I manage to grab the bag entirely from him and hold it close to my chest. I can't let him see. I absolutely can't let him see, or anyone for that matter. Adrenaline coursing through my veins, I dash in the opposite direction toward my room, and shut and lock the door behind me. Leaning against it, I pause to catch my breath and hold the spot that he likely bruised.

Should probably take a look at it. I can't ice it, but I can at least assess the damage. I drop my bag on the floor, and raise my arms to peel away my T-shirt. Underneath is only a sports bra, and as expected, the part that hurts is unpleasantly red and soon going to purple.

I touch my chest, absentmindedly. There isn't much there to begin with, so it's not difficult to hide. And I wish I didn't have to. All I want is to wear the cute skirts and accessories displayed in the windows at the mall, where Miki used to take me on dates. I could never tell her that I wanted to try them on.

After all, she'd think I'm weird. I _am_ weird.

\--

When I get to school the next day, it's almost a relief. Not entirely, because I'm still playing a part, and not the good kind, but. Weaving through the crowd, I reach my locker nonetheless. It's as I'm turning round the combination lock that I realize something is off. When I glance at the locker to my left, it has fresh writing all over it. Three big letters, starting with a capital F. It's an ugly reminder of the environment we live in.

"What are you staring at?" Oh. Oops. Of course this would belong to someone, huh. And that _someone_ sounds pretty pissed. His eyes narrow at me through a somewhat overgrown haircut.

"No, it's just... I'm sorry. The kids here can be dicks," I say. It crosses my mind that he might be openly gay. My words don't soothe him, and I really shouldn't have expected them to.

He rolls his eyes instead. His lean arms are crossed against an open flannel shirt with a tee underneath. "Tch. You think I don't know that? Must be easy being a second generation quarterback." Wait, what? His snark and bitter streak are not lost on me, and I recoil and scramble into a defensive position.

"Easy? You think it's _easy_?" I echo in disbelief. After the hell that was yesterday evening, I have no idea what he thinks my life is like. He's not interested in hearing about it, either.

"Look," he says flatly, "I don't know what bullshit strings you pulled to get in, but I'm better than you and I'm gonna get my spot back. Just you watch." Was he someone that was kicked off the team? How is that _my_ fault? But he's already walking away, books in arm. Wait, when did he get those? "Better hurry up," he calls back, "or the bell's gonna ring."

Right on cue. I groan; today is going to be fun.


End file.
